


The Invisible Detective

by Wolf_Lettuce



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Overdosing, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal!John, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2018-12-07 23:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11634297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_Lettuce/pseuds/Wolf_Lettuce
Summary: After the death of his colleague, John has nowhere to turn except into the dark depths of his own mind.little did he know that the invisible detective was still watching him from a far, but did he reappear too late?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Suicide is a serious topic, and not for anyone who will be triggered. I speak from personal boughs of depression, when i say that it is not the answer.  
> with this in mind; I hope you enjoy the fic.  
> with love and weirdness,  
> Posey Rayne.

"Say it now; what you couldn't say before."

 

"no...I can't."

 

He had been like that. Ever since Sherlock took his leap. 

John had held the detective's wrist, as bone shards and brain matter were washed away by crimson liquid and ever so fitting London rain. 

He looked into those cold blue eyes, truly icy now, cold as death. They would never Dance with the fascination of a murder case again.

Even as Bart's best nurses wrapped their warm hands around his jacket sleeves; he grasped at the cold, rough, and now blood soaked lapels of Sherlock's trench coat. The warmth of the foreign hands were unwanted in the dark situation.

Eventually John's grasp lightened up; he realized that a corpse, no matter who it once was, could not return the slightest gesture.

He turned his head into the breast of one of the nurses, he sought comfort, even from a stranger, as the detective was wheeled away.

Sherlock was wheeled away on a gurney, while professional sunken faces looked on through the sheeting rain, as they carried away a famous fraud. A true to the dictionary definition, legend.

John didn't attend his funeral.

He was too upset, that _man_ had jumped off of the roof without any care about the people who did. 

John would hear word that even Sally Donovan had attended, and shed a tear for the fallen sociopath.

Of course John got over his pathetic stages, and brought his flatmate flowers. 

 

\----------

 

Mrs. Hudson hadn't touched any of Sherlock's belongings; she left the body parts in the fridge stiffen and decompose, and even in his death, followed Sherlock's request to refrain from dusting. 

John, However had removed dust motes from the air as he'd breath in drunken air. 

Sherlock had kept Johns head from wandering to his demons; Harry's alcohol poisoning, PTSD, depression, and Insomnia.

so, as miss Hudson would avoid the flat entirely, John was wallowing in ghosts of his past.

He became a hypocrite.

Liquor bottles riddled the flat.

what he didn't see were the little cameras that were hidden behind books on Sherlock's bookshelf.

Mycroft was watching his entire downfall, his entire drop into complete insanity, in a way John's fall was greater than Sherlock's.

Sherlock's fall was quick, one way, John's was filled with loops, and sways. 

Everyday, drunk, hungover, High, or sober, John would visit Sherlock's grave. 

He brought flowers to his grave every day that he could afford them, and John would sit and play with the grass, talking with his Flatmates headstone.

John would sit there for hours, until nightfall then he trudge back to the gates, puffy eyed, and exhausted, hail a cab, and go back to their empty flat to flood his liver.

Mycroft watched everyday, and every night. He only slept when john did. when John fell through the door of his flat, Mycroft knew something was different.

Sherlock's death anniversary was tonight.

In John's mind it had finally, officially clicked.

His _friend_  was never coming back. 

His Sherlock was never coming back. 

Mycroft watched as the soldier slid down the back of the door in a mess of tears. Hands in his hair. He was whispering something over, and over, and over. 

Mycroft leaned towards his computer screen, listening to the words coming out of the Doctors mouth. 

 

_"Sherlock,please,Sherlock,Please,Sherlock...."_

 

Mycroft immediately threw his hand on his mobile.

 

\-----------------------

 

John was in hysterics. Rummaging through their... _his_...flat for any type of liquor. 

He managed to score a half drunk bottle of brandy from Christmas. How poetic.

He moved to **one** of Sherlock's drug stashes. Of course he knew where they were.

Sherlock was a great man, but it would've taken a good one to hide Narcotics from an an Army doctor. Also Their only friend.

 

John was never one for injectables; he always preferred to swallow his feelings.

He gave a small, sad smile when he found his old anti-depressants.

He remembers the small conversation he had with Sherlock when he had found them, How he asked, and deduced the reasoning behind them.

Because the moment he met Sherlock all of his depression went away.

Now, here he sat, on Sherlock's bed. One hand wrapped around a cold,bitter and remorseful bottle, the other palm cradled a cure, curse, and poison at the same time.

He had not been in this room since the night before Sherlock's fall.

 

He uncorked the bottle, smelling the acidic liquid inside. Then, he moved the pill bottle in his hands, drinking in the full rattle that they made.

John unscrewed the bottle, and placed one of the white tablets on his tongue, Brought the lip of impostor glass to his own, knocked it back and swallowed the first of many.

\--------------------

John managed to get the tenth down, when his body collapsed back onto the bed fully. The bottle of brandy forgotten, fallen on the floor, the bottle of pills at his side, having rolled out of his limp hand. He had made an attempt to curl in on himself, his stomach churning, rolling.

His last words:  

_" I Love You...Sher...Sherl..."_

 --------------------

 Mycroft looked on in actual panic as John rummaged through A cigar box. 

Sherlock was not answering his phone. 

For a moment, in a long time, Mycroft was actually Panicking.

ten minutes a little too late Sherlock answered the phone with:

" What do you want Mycroft?! I was busy with something!"

\---------------------

Sherlock throw the door open to 221B, not caring if he gave Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.

He took the stairs two at a time, and threw open his flats door, Immediately rushing to his room, trying to ignore the stench of stale liquor, and rotting take away.

what he found in his bed made his rare heart sink, and his forgotten emotions arise.

on his bed laid a small figure that barely resembled the John Hamish Watson he remembered.

A sickly pale green shade now covered his skin, a shadow of his true pigment, his eye were closed but the lids looked like bruises, pale blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his lips were a pale blue.

He looked like he was dead. 

Sherlock made two long strides and stood over him, now noticing the white bile and medication fizz lingering on his chin, and next to his nose and face.

Sherlock gingerly stuck out two fingers feeling for a pulse, he found one, just barley there, as if it was John's subconscious waiting for him. 

Sherlock quickly moved an arm around him and pulled him upward, defiantly 26 pounds lighter, not good.

He heaved John up into his lap, and cradled his head in one arm, while prying his mouth open with the other.

with a silent apology, Sherlock pressed two fingers straight to the back of his throat, trying to get him to throw up the contents of his stomach.

Mycroft watched on CCTV the scene before him unfold, his baby brother trying to move the almost corpse of possibly the only other person in the world who would care for him.

Sherlock almost cried in relief when John began gagging, and he didn't even mind it when John spewed up White chunks of medication, and brandy sludge.

 

Sherlock kissed his forehead, and moved away the stay locks of hair.

before John's convolutions started, Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of ambulance sirens. 

He was going to have to thank his older brother.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, you fucks.  
> Everyone wants it, so, here.

It had just rained. The earth damp, soft, and porous. The heavens had cried, and the welcoming committee were slimy creatures, hiding in the depths of topsoil and silt, wriggling their way to open air, and clinging to moistened blades of jade.

His neglected, scratched up, and unpolished black soled shoes left imprints in the softened earth. Water soon filled them, attempting to repair, to stitch, back what was ripped open, what was stolen, taken from them.

Sherlock trudged through the hollowed resting place, headstones and twigs scattered in equal secession, for a holy place of mourning, it seemed plenty disrespectful.

Leaves, brightened by the rains, shone brightly, almost like earthly stars, swinging eagerly in the aftershocks of rain, and swamping underneath clouded skies, fighting off its depression. The aspirations of joy presented by the swaying emerald was deemed, by Sherlock's shrouded mind, at least, inappropriate for such a setting.

Sherlock’s suit, rumpled, pants creased from lounging on his couch for hours, contemplating, shoes scuffed, as previously stated, curls unkempt, eyes sunken. In Sherlock’s left hand he grasped the only thing that looked lively, healthy.

A beautiful arrangement of silken roses, peppered with stray rain droplets, and strung together with a velveteen ribbon. Sherlock’s right hand curved into the shape of a loose fist, not having the strength to complete it, however it vibrated, quivered, shook with the effort it took to maintain a perfect facade in his heroin draped eyes. Sherlock looked down, assessing his resting point.

 

John H. Watson, War Veteran, Friend, and Hero.

 

Sherlock’s composure crumbled, knees capsizing, and creased suit falling in graveyard muck.

His knees were cold, numbed, and his thighs shaking in the mud, and yet, Sherlock’s mind was on his friend’s headstone.

Two years.

Pills.

And how cliché that he lives these turns and not his dear Watson?

John was not DOA, instead, Mycroft had shut down all of London, the entire hospital except Surgery, and still, Sherlock had done everything that he could. Sherlock ran down the corridor, ramming down patients and nurses alike, and even though he, personally, dragged John onto the operating table, he was too late.

As soon as the electrodes were placed, the monotone screeching of a flat line blared right back into his overly hopeful face.

Mycroft grabbed his arm, yanked him backwards, through the yawning doors, and dragged him, when he fell, through to the lobby.

And how cruel life was. How Ironic.

Two years since John’s death, four since his.

Sherlock stared intently into the carved stone that now represented what his bestfriend once was.

He stared as if John’s voice would erupt from it’s cradle in a six foot deep prison.

Sherlock gingerly placed the velvet roses atop the softened earth covering John, and spoke his peace in a somber, baritone, peace that licked at old woulds, prodded them with salts and Lye, scratched at them with nine inch talons, and burned them with kerosene torches.

“John,” A pause beore peace.

“John, I need to get something through your funny little brain,” A pause for torment.

“I never informed you directly, I guess it was never proposed indirectly either, but,” A grimace from the heavens, so it seemed. They began their tears once more.

“John, what I’m trying to tell you is,” A crack of lightning, electrotherapy, so it seemed.

“John, I love you.”

And the peace was unearthed, it’s bones scattered, it’s spirit demolished, and soul gasping to fly.

The peace came back, somewhat, almost.

Sherlock pulled peace from his tailored coat pocket, the seams catching loosely on it’s un-cocked trigger.

Sherlock, pulled the hammer back, clicking Peace into place, loading it into a six chamber chance.

Sherlock placed Peace’s lips against his temple, bit his lip, closed his eyes, and breathed out.

Click.

Sherlock sat there with the serene look on his face.

Unaware.

 

He felt something soft upon his sharpened cheek, a pressure, a fluttering of satin against his skin.

With his eye’s closed, and ears open.

 

“ you really think I’d let you keep the bullets?”

 

And Peace was resurrected, death was a laughing stock. “Happy anniversary, Sherlock.”


End file.
